


How was Your Day?

by Starlithorizon



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Arthur is a cutie, F/M, Gen, MJN Air Is A Family, but not a lot of angst, letscreatecabinpressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew of MJN Air spends their day off having separate adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How was Your Day?

**Author's Note:**

> My exhaustion is showing in the shape of a terrible summary.  
> Anyway, this was written for the September [Let's Create Cabin Pressure!](http://letscreatecabinpressure.tumblr.com/) challenge. The prompt was, "On a day off, Carolyn, Martin, Douglas, and Arthur all have separate adventures be them good, bad, or ugly. Then they reunite for a normal day of standby at Fitton Air Field."  
> Anyway, I wrote all of this in an exhausted state (such is the life of the procrastinator, but I'm not sorry), and all I hope is that it's coherent!

Martin wasn't overly fond of days off. Sure, he didn't have to worry about Arthur's concoction of the day or Douglas's remarks or Carolyn's barbs, but he didn't live for them. He didn't count the seconds till he was free. He did count the milliseconds until he could schlep another's belongings across town for grocery money, but for the most part, he couldn't care less about days off.

As it was, he _did_ enjoy days like this one. For the first time in nearly two months, he slept in till the ungodly hour of ten in the morning, stretching like a cat as he woke. He puttered around the kitchen of the shared house, luxuriating in being an adult in a house full of students for the first time in a very long while. Knowing his situation, they didn't mind if he used their eggs or bread or vegetables, and this morning, he used all three to craft a lovely breakfast. It was a quiet little luxury that he rarely allowed himself.

At noon, he got into his rickety van and drove across town for a job. The house was small and tidily kept, with roses blooming on either side of the footpath. The steps creaked as Martin climbed them to the porch, more in greeting than out of protest. He stood awkwardly in front of the screen door, rubbing his forearm absently.

"Hello?" he called into the darkness beyond the open front door. "Uh, Icarus Removals here!"

"Oh, hello!" called a voice from within. It was warm and aged and comfortably worn, like a beloved leather coat. "Come in, come in!"

The inside was just as neat as the outside, though perhaps a bit more covered in dust. Old portraits with gleaming smiles hung on the walls, knitted Afghans were draped over sofas and chairs, and tiny glass knick-knacks shared space with smaller portraits and dishes of boiled sweets on the tables. This house was like a well-worn life exemplified.

Further into the front room, Martin noticed the older man sat in a large, soft chair, an afghan thrown over his lap. He had thin wisps of white hair and a face creased with kindness. He beamed at Martin like he was something special, something more than a Man with a Van. It was the grin of one greeting an old friend.

"Mr Samuels, right?" Martin asked, offering a small smile to the man.

"Yes! Albert Samuels, though feel free to call me Al. Sit down!"

Martin sat gingerly on the chintz-covered sofa, carefully _not_ noticing the cloud of dust that rose as he did so.

"What's your name, son?" Al asked, still grinning like they'd known each other for decades.

"Er, Martin. Martin Crieff. Uh, you didn't say much about what you needed done on the phone—"

"Oh, don't mind that just yet. Unless you're busy later? If that's the case, we could get started right away."

"No, no, this is all I have to do today. There's no rush."

There was a pang of guilt as he thought of how that might seem, trying to stretch the job for more money. He'd be sure to only charge for hours spent working. Clearly this man was looking for someone to spend time with, if the dust layering everything was any indication.

Martin studied the photos on the walls a bit more closely, squinting at the woman grinning beside an obviously younger Al. There was one interesting photo on an end table, of Al looking placid and sure under a jaunty blue cap.

"You were in the RAF?" Martin squeaked, looking at the older and cheerier face in the chair across from him.

"I was! Joined in 1943, at the ripe old age of eighteen. I've flown some beauties in my day," he said wistfully. Martin immediately leaned forward, hands lacing and eyes widening.

"Which was your favourite?"

The pair talked aeroplanes and first officers for an hour before Al revealed that he was being moved into a home at his daughter's insistence. Al's wife, Maggie, had passed away three years prior and he spoke of her with adoration rather than grief. The young captain listened raptly as they sat together, and as he packed boxes full of memories, and as he loaded the van, and as he drove with Al to the home. He wasn't moving in so much as settling the little flat for when he would. It was disheartening to think that he was the one doing this and not Al's daughter, but it was an honour nonetheless.

Al took him to lunch at a little deli on the high street on the way back to his house, where he proceeded to give Martin life advice.

"Don't ever take your family for granted," the old hero said between crisps. "And I don't just mean your blood family. One day, you wake up and realize that the friends you've been collecting or the people thrown into your life are as much your family as those who raised you. Don't squander them."

There were words of encouragement and a hearty tip ("Buy yourself some real food when you can.") when Martin finally left.

He drove home with something like peaceful sorrow settling into the cavity of his chest.

* * *

It was relatively nice to have a day off. He loved working, and he loved spending most of his time with everyone, but sometimes, Arthur liked to do other things. He had a slight ritual on days off, and they were always especially brilliant.

He woke bright and early, relishing the light pouring through the open curtains and falling over his body. He dressed quickly, stuffing his feet into a pair of shoes and snatching up his things. There was a plate of pancakes with his name on it at Minnie's in the high street. Well, they didn't _actually_ have his name, and neither did the plate, but the menu _did_. The Toblerone pancakes were listed as the Arthur Special.

As he walked through town, people waved and smiled and greeted him with smiles. He stopped and chatted with everyone as he passed.

"Hullo, Arthur!" cried Gregory Matlin as he walked by the butcher. The steward stepped into the cool white shop, enthralled by the red meat glittering in the sunlight bouncing off the gleaming white tile floor.

"Hi, Mr Matlin! How's Katie?"

They discussed the butcher's family and Arthur's latest adventures and he left with a ticket for a free cut whenever his mum went in. At the flower shop, he picked up a small bunch of daisies and a cheeky wink from Mathilda, the owner's eldest daughter. In the little corner store, he stopped in to say hi and promise to return later to pick up some things.

By the time he got to the cafe, it was already ten, and they were in the swing of breakfast. Clara, the diminutive owner of the cafe (known as Minnie to her friends), hugged Arthur and showed him to his usual table by the window. He presented the daisies and got a menu in return.

"Pineapple juice and an Arthur Special, right, dear?" Minnie asked before he could even open his menu. He laughed brightly and handed it right back.

"Of course! Thank you, Minnie!"

"Not a problem, dear. I'll be back with your juice and then you can tell me all about your adventures."

Arthur had been coming to this cafe with his mum since he was little, and on his own when he wasn't quite so little anymore. Most everyone in town knew him, and he was well aware that it took time for most people to find him half as brilliant as he found them. By now, most people on the high street thought he was sweet and funny and charming. He'd been defended fiercely by most of them, and their love for "that dear Shappey boy" was one of the most brilliant things in the world. He still had his dad's connections, and he did spend some days at the Pony Club (which usually resulted in dates with girls in Alice bands and vicious families), but days in the rundown little town were among his favourite. He wanted to spend a day with his crew, just making his way down the high street and talking with everyone he passed, just to show them his element. But this was a thing just for him, just to give his life a bit of extra brightness.

He spent well over two hours in the cafe, talking with Minnie and the passing wait staff, regaling them all with the brilliant adventures of MJN. They all laughed at Douglas's antics and cheered at Skip's victories, beamed at Arthur's discoveries and sympathized with Mum's low tolerance for, well, people. He gave Amber the waitress a few postcards for her collection, and he got a soft blush and a thousand-watt smile in return.

After Minnie's, he walked around the park for a bit, enjoying the breeze and the sun and the faint hints of autumn in the air. Leaves rattled against one another melodically and crunched beautifully underfoot. He briefly lamented forgetting to bring some bread for the ducks, but it was nice to watch them anyway as they waddled around and flapped inelegantly into the water. It seemed they were enjoying this lovely weather just as much as he was.

By the time he made it back home, arms weighed down with provisions from the corner shop, he was ready to curl up with Snoopadoop and take a nap on the sofa until Mum came home from her date with Herc and they could make dinner.

On days off, Arthur filled his time with brightness and kindness to counteract the darkness thrust upon him by mean passengers and strangers. Now, tucked up on the sofa with Snoopadoop warm at his side, he nodded off, a smile on his face.

* * *

Herc picked her up around noon, well after Arthur has left to spend the day however it was he spent it. That horrid racing green Mercedes purred in her drive and he offered up a smile that made sparks light along her fingertips.

"Hello," Herc drawled as she got into the car. She sat primly, hands folded over her handbag in her lap after fastening her seatbelt.

"Hello." There was that mild acid in her voice, as always, but it was softened so slightly in the presence of this idiot. The corners of her mouth were turned up in a smile.

She'd stopped hiding that little quirk long ago.

"So are you going to tell me where you're taking me, or are you going to do that awful thing where you surprise me?" she snapped as he backed out of the drive. He grinned, eyes flashing to the side of her a face like headlights.

"Of course I'm not," he said cheerily. "You'll love it."

"You said that about _Carmen_ ," she said darkly, and his face scrunched with the size of his grin.

"And I was right—I heard you humming 'Habanera' as we left."

"It's catchy!"

"You enjoyed it."

"Not in the least. I despise opera."

"And you lie pathologically."

They bickered the whole way there, wherever there was. She would only admit it in the delicate hush of a perfect moment slipped between other, more ordinary moments, but she would happily go anywhere with Herc just for the chance to catch that adoring little smile tucked into the corners of a more sardonic grin.

They wound through country roads and pastoral views and cloudless skies, his hand occasionally brushing hers as he shifted gears. The little sparks always ignited along those nerve endings, trailing along his touch. She remembered her first opera with Herc, when he didn't care in the least whether she liked it or not, and now here was, with something up her sleeve that he wanted her to love.

Sometimes, when it was dark and quiet and the other side of the bed was cold, she acknowledged just how lucky she was to have someone who loved her so absolutely.

Herc's special plan was, sweetly and simply enough, nothing more than a picnic about an hour outside of town. He made all of her favourite foods, brought her favourite wine, and pulled open the crinkly plastic wrapper of Oreos that she would never admit to loving out of disdain and superiority.

As he offered the packet, she knew intrinsically and deep within her bones that she was absolutely in love with this man.

She smiled like a shark, and he beamed because he knew.

* * *

Douglas and his first wife had lived in a shoddy little flat in London. They were so young, children playing house. But, oh, how he'd loved her. Julia had been beautiful and clever and kind and sharper than the Ginsu knives her cousin had given them as a wedding present. She was studying politics and he was studying medicine.

They'd met in their shared English class during their first week of university, and they were married a year later. Everyone had said that they were too young, too reckless, too uncertain and drifting.

They had been married for three years when she went to hospital with pneumonia and come out with a diagnosis of leukemia. She died within the year, and Douglas always remembered that she was one of the only people he'd ever known who hadn't been totally taken by his charms.

For the first time in a long time, he made that drive to London, wilting bouquet of wildflowers in the passenger seat of the Lexus. He hadn't wondered about the possibilities in a long while, but Douglas was only human and he wondered what his life might be like if she'd lived. He knew her death was what prompted him to give up on medicine, just as it had given up on her. He definitely wouldn't have become a washed-up old pilot with a bad record and a daughter he never got to see.

Despite everything, Douglas did love his life. He loved his little girl and his makeshift family. He was incredibly proud of his sobriety, even if he didn't quite feel the same way about his alcoholism. All in all, in spite of the wrenches thrown his way, Douglas had to admit that his life was not a bad one.

When he got to the cemetery, he let his feet and memory guide him through the silent monuments and stones to the one bearing his first wife's name.

There she was, worn by time like hands. _Julia Dawn Richardson, always loved_. There were the two years that summed up her life, ignoring the others between. Ignoring the year she'd taken off to travel, the year she'd married Douglas anyway, the year she first got excited about politics, every year that saw her draw breath. The only numbers on the stone were the ones that saw her first and last breaths.

"Hello, darling," Douglas said quietly, laying the bouquet over her grave and brushing his fingers against her steadily dissolving name. "It's been a while, hasn't it? I have some good stories for you, though, not that that makes up for it. But, as always, I do try. Last week, my crew went to Italy..."

* * *

"Morning!" Arthur said brightly as he and his mother walked into the Portakabin. Martin, already hunched over his paperwork, threw a brief smile and greeting their way as they hung up their coats and did their ordinary morning things. Douglas arrived sort of vaguely on time, looking perhaps a bit drawn. He received the same cheerful greeting as Martin, and he offered the same dull response as the captain.

"How was your day yesterday?" Arthur asked as he prepared tea and coffee for everyone. "Mine was _brilliant_."

He then proceeded to outline his free day, lavishing detail upon his breakfast and his friends. Martin smiled quietly at the boxes and lines on his desk.

"I helped an RAF veteran move," Martin said, keeping the sorrow tucked neatly into the hollow of his collarbone.

Carolyn refused to volunteer any information, though her face softened at the thought of it.

Douglas sagged subtly, but there was something like peace settling across his features.

MJN continued as it normally did, the four members of its little family swirling and spinning together, teasing each other and being cheered by Arthur. The world often reached out to touch them, and it often weighed heavily across their shoulders, but each knew that it would only be a matter of time before the load was lightened by the others. Martin would never face the crippling loneliness thrust upon Al, and Douglas would never have to mourn alone.

It was simply the way their world worked, and that was good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Never beta'd, never Brit-picked, we all know these things by now. Check out more fandom-y goodness over on my [tumblr!](http://litbythestars.tumblr.com/) There's a lot of Ben's face going on right now.  
> And the idea of Douglas being a widower came to me at two in the morning, when I should have been sleeping or writing about _The Bhagavad-Gita_ and it made me sad but I wrote it anyway. Formal apologies all around.


End file.
